The Headless Horseman
by wiffyscoob
Summary: Helena G. Wells wakes up in Sleepy Hollow, New York, some 250 years in the future, only to discover the man she beheaded in the past has arrived as well. Helena realizes he is Death, one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Can she convince Lt. Myka Bering of the Sleepy Hollow PD to help her track down and destroy this harbinger of evil?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N** : This story was written for kla1991 on tumblr as part of the Bering and Wells Holiday Exchange. Thus far, I only have this chapter written. I figure about four or five more. I'm going to do my best to get them out as soon as possible, especially as I have other stories I want to get finished. I've been having a lot of fun with this though, and fortunately for me, kla1991 likes it!

This is Bering and Wells version of Sleepy Hollow's pilot episode.

Sam is in this fic just because one of the officers in the show has a thing for Lt. Abbie Mills (Myka's role), and the story works out much better with Sam in his role. I kind of bash Sam in the story, so if you like him you shouldn't read this. I never cared for him in the show (and not just because I ship Bering and Wells!). His nickname for Myka was "Bunny", which I felt was misogynistic and I couldn't stand it.

The others you will just have to wait and see. Artie is in this chapter, but I don't want to spoil his role.

Helena is the Ichabod Crane in this story, just like the tv show. I love season one, but the show lost its way afterwards. I thought Helena would make a great Ichabod as she is a British time traveler herself. In fact, the coat and outfit Helena wears in "3...2...1" reminds me a bit of Ichabod's outfit on the show. It also helps at one point I saw a manip (or drawing, I forget) on tumblr with Helena and Myka as the two leads in the show, except Myka and Helena's relationship will eventually turn romantic, unlike Ichabod's and Lt. Abbie Mills.

...

 **Hudson Valley 1781**

The forest was wrought with the smell of gun powder, which was so strong it could overwhelm ones senses.

A slight woman, dressed in a Revolutionary War uniform, fired off shots from her pistol, seeking to kill as many Redcoats as possible.

Suddenly, a white horse and its rider, inexplicably untouched by any semblance of the battle raging around him, came to a halt not far from Helena G. Wells. The Redcoat of a big, bulky build, took slow, deliberate steps towards Helena, and only Helena. As if she was this man's sole target and nothing else mattered. Helena suddenly was aware this man was the one she had been directly sent to kill.

Helena still had two shots left, and fired directly into the man's chest, who took them without stopping. Helena soon realized she was in trouble, for the man carried a broad ax, and any soldier that tried to stop him was summerly dispatched in the most gruesome fashion

This was no ordinary man, Helena thought. This was some kind of demonic creature hiding behind some sort of leather mask. The chance of her survival was minimal but it was vital she dispatch this fiend. Besides, Helena was no coward. If she was to be beaten by this monster, she would not go down without a fight.

The demonic figure swung his axe, but each time, Helena was able to avoid its hit. She tried to use her expertise of kempo in defense, and hoped to knock the creature off balance, and use its weapon against him.

Luck was with her; she knocked this monster off balance. However the luck soon turned. With surprise, she felt the blade cut her stomach. However, during his fall, the creature dropped the axe. Before Helena fell from her injury, she summoned enough energy to grab the axe, and cut off the creature's head. As she completely fell onto the leaves already showing signs of her blood, Helena passed out.

—–-

 **Sleepy Hollow Present Day**

The dirt was damp, and the moment she became conscious, Helena clawed and fought her way though it, soon breaking through the loose soil.

Helena continued to pull herself completely up through the hole, able to only roll her body about a foot away. Was this her grave? Helena sat up, shook her head, and began to roughly brush off the damp earth. Seeing was difficult; only bits of sunlight shown through cracks in what appeared to be a cave.

Helena stumbled to her feet, touching her stomach where she had been wounded so severely. To her surprise, it had healed. After the battle, Helena was sure she would die.

There was suddenly a hazy memory of being in a triage area, a civilian nurse trying to stop the bleeding. "Don't die yet, Helena. Please. We can help you."

Helena shook her head trying to remember more but it wouldn't come. She knew the voice but unfortunately was unable to place it.

Helena studied the area where sunlight filtered through the top. It seemed loose enough where one good toss with a rock could break through. Luckily, rocks scattered on the earthen floor would most likely do the trick to set her free. After a number of tries a bigger hole, streaming sunshine shined through causing Helena to block her eyes a moment as she was so unused to such brightness.

The path upwards was not insurmountable, and Helena considered utilizing her grappler. She felt around her pockets. However, she frankly had serious doubts about the ability of the grappler's hook to catch hold of something firm in order to lift her through the hole. As the grappler was not on her person, Helena made a cursory check on the cave she was trapped within, but could find no trace of her invention. Despite the temptation to keep looking, the need to leave this earthen prison was more immediate, and not just for the basic necessities of food and water. She would return for the grappler at a later date. Helena had no wish to be trapped in here when night came.

Steeling herself, she climbed easily enough. Helena poked her head out the hole to see forest. The warmth of the sun was incredibly welcome, as until that moment, Helena hadn't realized how cold she really was.

Lifting herself through, she surveyed the land wondering if she was still at the site of the battle. There was no scent of gunpowder, and the area looked untouched by anyone. No boot prints were to be found.

After a moment, Helena took off, half walking, half stumbling through terrain she could not identify.

—–-

It had been an hour when Helena broke through the unfamiliar forest, and came upon some sort of road.

Sitting on her haunches to examine further, she ran her hand across the surface. It was. Granite with some sign painted on it.

Suddenly a loud noise caused her to jump up, and she was very nearly run over by some sort of…vehicle?

Before Helena could gain her equilibrium, a sound of a horn blared so loud, and she had to cover her ears. Another impossibly large vehicle brushed past her.

Deciding it was time to flee, Helena stumbled and then ran down the endless road with no ending in sight, unknowingly passing a large sign that said: Welcome to the Village of Sleepy Hollow.

—–-

Sheriff Artie Neilson took another bite of his messy hot apple pie a la mode.

Myka grimaced slightly. Artie's fondness for this dessert reminded her of her pal Pete and his sugar loaded appetite. Although, Artie seemed to limit it more towards this pie and his own baked cookies. Myka wasn't fond of sugar, but would relent to eating one or two cookies, telling herself it was to make Artie happy when in reality, she secretly enjoyed the treat. The amusement in Artie's eyes showed he knew the truth, despite Myka's put upon distaste for the cookies.

Myka knew she would be teased even further if he knew of the twizzlers she hid in her desk at the police station. Only Pete knew and took the opportunity to continually tease her. However, he knew well and good he was in for it if he should let others know. Myka's punches were painful even in supposed jest. Suspects unprepared for a Myka punch often were in such pain afterwards, ice packs and multitudes of ibuprofen were needed.

"You're going to give yourself a heart attack if you keep eating those pies, Artie."

He pointed his fork at her. "My heart is perfectly fine. I had Vanessa check it just a week ago."

Myka smirked, knowing full well Artie's visit to Doctor Vanessa Calder was more personal than professional. She was about to make a comment when the waitress set a coffee cup down in front of her.

"Here ya go, Myka. Anything else?"

"No thanks, Jackie. I'm fine."

She stirred in a bit of cream, and before she had a chance to sip any coffee, Artie started in.

"You know, Myka, there are some unsolved murder cases I was planning on getting to soon. I could use your eye for detail."

Myka set the coffee cup down, and rolled her eyes. "I know what you're doing, old man, and it's not going to work."

Artie shot her an innocent look. "I'm just saying, there is a lot going on here, and those idiots at the station wouldn't know what to look for, even if the evidence bit them in the ass."

"Artie, I am going to Quantico next week, and that's the end of it. You know the FBI only picks 240 people a year." Pausing, her insecurity surfaced. "I'm lucky to even have been considered for the program."

Artie finished up his dessert, and wiped his beard with a napkin. "It had nothing to do with luck, Myka, and you know it. You know I've never been one great with…well…feelings of any kind but…" Artie stared at Myka and she could see pride there, which filled her with happiness. "You are one of a kind, Myka, and I know you'll get through just fine."

She wisely didn't say anything, not wanting to embarrass him any further. Artie cleared his throat, returning to his gruff self. "It's time to go. Get a to-go cup if you insist on taking the coffee with us." He pushed away the empty plate, and grabbed his hat.

Myka smiled a bit and shook her head before rising from the booth. "I'm good."

They headed to the door, Myka leading. As they made their exit, Myka never saw the priest in another booth stare at Artie who quizzically stared back.

—–

Myka was about to open the police cruiser door when a call came over the radio. Grabbing the mike, she answered, "Go ahead, Charlie 101."

The police operator responded with "There's some kind of disturbance over at the Schroeder Farm. Horses are acting up or something."

Myka rose an eyebrow at Artie. "Sounds like coyotes, Mabel."

"Probably," Mabel said flatly, and Myka could easily envision the eye roll at the answer; they responded to calls from Schroeder at least once a week, which inevitably turned into nothing more than the old farmer's imagination.

"On our way."

"Copy that. Charlie 101 out."

Artie went around to the driver's side. Taking off his hat and tossing it into the back, he remarked, "Guess to Schroeder's it is."

"Guess so," Myka replied and slid into the passenger seat, shaking her head.

She sure wouldn't miss the routine calls as being part of Sleepy Hollow's finest.

—–

The wind was kicking up as they drove up, and nothing seemed out of the ordinary. There was a light shining through the window, and Myka wondered if Schroeder was around. They heard the horses whining over the wind. If she could hear them this loudly amidst the fierce wind, something really had them spooked.

Artie instructed, "I'm going to check the barn. See if Schroeder is home. Be careful if it really is coyotes. They may still be around."

Myka followed the commands, choosing not to respond to the needless warning. She'd handled these type of calls plenty of times.

Sighing, she knocked on the door, calling, "Mr. Schroeder, it's Lt. Bering." Myka waited for a response, but there was only silence, so she pounded on the door. "Mr. Schroeder, it's Lt. Bering from Sleepy Hollow PD! Are you in there?" Myka considered going in, but knew she had no real reason for doing so without a warrant.

Holding out her small sturdy flashlight, Myka began to walk around, her right hand on her gun, ready to pull it out of her holster if necessary.

"Mr. Schroeder!" She didn't need Pete's vibes to tell her things weren't right. Myka decided to withdraw her gun, and held it by her side. Seeing Schroeder's old pickup parked in its usual spot, Myka carefully walked over.

The high wind was now followed by the occasional boom of thunder. Rounding the back of the truck, Myka saw the door open with the car light on. "Mr. Schroeder!"

The moment she saw Schroeder's headless body, Myka almost lost any food in her stomach. Her flashlight fell from her hand, and she stumbled back a bit, nearly stepping on Schroeder's rifle and his severed head.

Still holding onto her pistol, she took a quick look, and grabbed her mike hooked to her shoulder.

"Artie! I found Schroeder. He's been beheaded, Artie!"

—–

The barn lights had been on when Artie had made it to the barn. Not wanting to let the horses out, he slowly closed the barn door behind him.

There had been nothing on his way. No coyotes, no anything. The horses in here were still whining, but there were no other animals in sight.

"Hey, there. What's got you so spooked?"

Right as he spoke, Myka's shout came over his mike. "Artie! I found Schroeder, and he's been beheaded, Artie!"

Artie's eyes went wide. Did they have a serial killer on the loose?

"Got it. I'm in the barn now. Call it in. I'll be right there."

He could hear his heart thumping in his ears. Suddenly appearing about ten paces away, was a sight he never expected to see: a large male body dressed as a Redcoat from the Revolutionary War, wielding an axe, and completely missing his head.

Artie went into police mode as the creature stalked towards him. "Police! Stop right there!" It never stopped in its tracks, and Artie shot the headless man in the chest three times and ran out of bullets. Before he could do anything, the creature was upon him. As the headless man swung his blade, Artie knew in that moment, he was going to die.

—–

Myka called for backup, and ignoring Artie, she ran to the barn.

She had just made it to the barn door, when an axe cut through the wood.

"Shit!" she swore.

Stumbling back, Myka was nearly hit by the door which burst open as a white horse ridden by someone dressed as Redcoat, and was…headless.

Myka could not believe what she was seeing. The horse stopped, reared up, and the rider appeared to look right at her, the axe still in his hand. She was aware enough to notice the tattoo on the back of his right hand. The rider then swung around, and galloped off into the night.

Scrambling on all fours, Myka witnessed Sheriff Nielsen's head roll out, closely followed by his headless body laying close by on the floor to the entrance of the barn.

White as a sheet, she grabbed her mike from her shoulder.

"Officer down! Officer down!"

—–

Sam heard the call over the radio during his quiet patrol.

"Got it!" He feared it Myka, and didn't think he could stand it if it really was.

Sam flipped on his siren, and swung a u-turn. Just as he sped up, someone ran in front of his police car. Skidding on the brakes, he managed to stop a few feet from this person, and jumping out, he immediately withdrew his pistol.

"Hands up!"

The person was so dirty, the sex was undiscernable, and they simply stared at him, as if unable to understand the simple command.

Sam knew a good number of Sleepy Hollow residents, if not personally, then on sight. This person he did not recognize, and as such, gave immediate credence to being responsible for an officer injured, or worse, dead.

"Place your hands on top of your head, turn around, and kneel."

There was hesitance, although he was certain the person now knew the command.

"Do it, or I will shoot you."

They slowly raised their hands with obvious reluctance to do so, but turned and kneeled on the ground.

Sam withdrew his handcuffs, and as he got closer, he could tell it was a woman dressed in some sort of old fashioned waistcoat and breeches. Ignoring the strangeness, he cuffed the woman and began to read her her rights.

—–

Myka stared at the woman in the cell, still handcuffed.

Was she a member of one of those reenactment American Revolution groups? Myka had seen her fair share in Sleepy Hollow. But this woman's outfit seemed more authentic, if possible.

And a woman dressed in the garb of a soldier also struck Myka as odd. She knew of women pretending to be men fighting in the Revolutionary War. Despite the male garb, this woman apparently did not hide the fact she was indeed female.

And rather beautiful even if filthy.

Myka cleared her throat and shook her head, attempting to dismiss that thought from her mind.

The sound of the jail door opened, and while Myka continued to stare at the prisoner, she heard Sam walking over to her.

"This is the person who killed Sheriff Nielsen, isn't it," Sam stated more than questioned. The surety in his tone told Myka he was trying so hard to impress her.

Myka didn't want Sam's neediness right now; not ever really. She had broken it off with him; he just couldn't accept it. But the reminder of why they were here made Myka sick memory of both Sheriff Nielsen and Old Man Schroeder's severed heads rolling on the ground next to their bodies was very vivid.

It was the most gruesome sight she had ever witnessed. Not only that, but Sheriff Nielsen, while gruff, was a great mentor and friend. She'd known him as a youngster and at times he felt more like a father than her own.

"I tell you I killed no one." The British accent, which at any other time would have made Myka swoon, led Myka to wonder if this woman was even in this country legally.

Whatever the case, she didn't match the description of the killer. Myka however instinctively knew this woman held some connection to the events.

"No, she isn't, Sam. For one thing, the person who killed Sheriff Nielsen and Schroeder, was a man." Myka neglected to mention no head, but she couldn't run the risk of her fellow officers slapping her with a 5150. Despite the incredulousness of it all, she knew what she witnessed.

"The man wore the uniform of a Redcoat, and had some sort of brand on the back of his right hand."

There was recognition, along with something akin to dread on the woman's face as she interrupted, "Was it of a bow? And did he wield an axe?"

Myka was right; this woman did know something. "Yes. How did you know this?"

Instead of directly answering, the British woman mumbled as if to herself. "No, no, no, no…it cannot be."

"So you know him."

"Yes, I do."

"From where?" Myka questioned.

"Not from where, but from when." The Englishwoman stared hard into Myka's eyes. "From the moment I cut off his head."


	2. The Improbability Is The Truth

A/N: Each scene is separated by ...

The original title for this chapter was an Arthur Conan Doyle quote. Unfortunately stupid ffn only allows a certain amount of characters for a chapter title. So, I paraphrased. The original quote is: "...when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

Enjoy!

Summary: For Myka Bering and Helena Wells, somewhere between fact and fantasy, lies the truth.

 **...**

"So, what do you think? Lady Cuckoo, or Lady Axe Wielding Maniac?"

"Neither," came out of Myka's mouth before she could stop it as she strode towards the cell which housed Wells.

Pete raised an eyebrow. "What else could it be, Mykes?" Tired of having to hoof it in order to keep up, Pete grabbed her arm, bringing Myka to an abrupt stop.

"What the hell, Pete?"

Boy, was she irritated. But he was on the way to being irritated himself. Myka could be tricky to deal with when she was in this kind of mood.

"Come on, Mykes. You must have some ideas. Not only are you my bestie, but we've worked as partners in the field, and I know how your mind works."

Myka was silent, rubbing the back of her neck, and Pete recognized the gesture.

"Either you have an idea but are reluctant to share...or you're still processing. Which is it, Myka?" Pete hated to push her after what happened, but they needed all hands on deck for this one. He was an ex-marine, and saw plenty of action in Iraq before joining Sleepy Hollow PD but when he saw the grisly sight at Schroeder's farm, it made even him sick.

Pete was aware of the relationship between Myka and Sheriff Nielsen. He and Myka may be best friends, but she kept him at arm's length about her troubled youth. However, Pete did know Artie was there for her in a way her parents, especially her father, had not been, or ever could be. Artie Nielsen's death must be destroying his best friend inside, but Myka reverted to her usual modus operandi.

Myka's entire focus was on solving the case to the exclusion of everything else so she could bury her emotions. At some point however the emotions would surface, but Pete would be there, ready to ground her. Now he couldn't get through if he tried.

Myka glanced at him in annoyance, but then admitted, "I don't know...I have some thoughts..." His face lit up, but she interrupted, "Nothing concrete, and nothing I wish to share right now."

This time Pete let it go, deciding he had pushed her far enough at the moment. Instead he commented, "Well, she's about to be grilled by Price. Maybe we'll get some answers from that."

Myka rolled her eyes. "Lie detectors are notoriously unreliable, but at the moment, I will take any extra info we can get. But Pete...she's not the killer."

"How do you know, Myka?"

"The killer was an approximately 6'2" bulky male dressed as a redcoat." She tapped the side of her head. "Eidetic memory, remember? There is no way that slight woman could swing a broad, heavy axe with such ease...or do such a quick costume change between the time of the murder and the time Sam arrested her. Other than that..." Myka shrugged. "I just know. It's as simple as that."

While Pete was dubious this woman's outlandish claims from last night were true, he trusted Myka. If she thought there was any chance this woman was the killer, Myka would be merciless in pursuing conviction.

She brushed past him, and while Pete's skepticism remained, his belief in his vibes was certain.

And right now, they were screaming loud and clear: "Danger, Will Robinson, danger!"

...

"You have no need to be so rough."

Helena had been unceremoniously shoved into a chair in some sort of enclosed room, and wondered about the civility in this time period. "Is this how a citizen is treated today? Your manners are simply appalling."

"Officer, you may leave the room." A standing nondescript blading man dismissed, and despite her unfamiliarity with this time, his attire and attitude suggested one in authority.

The blond officer paused, staring down at her. His expression wore some type of conflict which she could not interpret. He certainly bore no liking for Helena, that much was obvious.

"Clearly I am incapable of hurting your colleague," Helena paused in annoyance, and then lifted her shackles to emphasize her point. "These manacles have made certain of that."

The officer finally nodded, and left, leaving her alone with the nondescript man. To her displeasure, he began to attach some sort of wires to her. After a moment, he seemed satisfied, and sat down across from Helena, fiddling with some sort of apparatus on the tabletop.

Despite the severity of the situation, Helena was curious. "What sort of machine is this?"

"This machine will test if you are telling the truth."

"The truth? In which I had nothing whatsoever to do with the murders of those two men? It should be quite obvious I did not. I was nowhere near the vicinity!" Helena protested, then added, "Are you perhaps a magistrate?"

Disregarding her inquiry, the man stated, "Miss Wells, you have a much better chance of leaving here if you just relax, and answer the following questions."

Unfortunately the situation provided no other recourse, so she acquiesced. Helena was surprised at the less than extensive interrogation of the previous night. The noticeable skepticism by each law enforcement officer grew as the more she revealed, the more mentally incompetent she appeared.

The man finished his preparation and began his interrogation. "What is your name?"

"Helena G. Wells. I am a captain in the colonial army under General George Washington."

"How is it a woman is a captain in George Washington's army?"

Helena bristled. "How is it, sir, that you have women wearing trousers and performing the duties of law enforcement?"

Paying no heed to Helena's outburst, the man asked, "How did you come to be in Washington's army?"

"My husband died fighting in the King's regiment at the Battle of Lexington." Helena smiled wistfully upon remembering Woolly. "He was a good man, but naive in a way. Woolly believed the monarchy had the best interest at heart for the colonists, and was a keen loyalist. I however was not. The weight of tyranny took a heavy toll on my conscious. After Woolly died, I was anxious to aid the colonists in gaining their independence, but was unsure how to go about it.

"Roughly four months after Woolly was killed in battle, I grew acquainted with a gentleman, who to my surprise, acknowledged my intellect. He eventually revealed he had great disdain for the oppressive power of the English government as well.

"After six months, he trusted me enough to warrant an introduction to George Washington. He considered Washington to be a man of free thinking, who was open to granting me the chance to utilize my skills in order to serve a higher purpose.

"You see, men often do not hold their tongue with a woman. They feel women lack the understanding and knowledge of anything beyond what is considered appropriate for the female sex, as in activities such as sewing, perhaps playing a musical instrument, how to dress and act in society, and the rearing of children. If a woman knows how to manipulate, a man will reveal all sorts of information, including military secrets, which he believes will impress her.

"Thus, becoming a spy was easy enough. Woolly had come from a wealthy family, and had a disguised military record. Before he had been assigned to the colonies, he was knighted. As a lady in high society, I knew a great many influential gentlemen, including nobility of both sexes.

"Among ladies of nobility, I was also privy to any information they were aware of. Because of Woolly's stature, I never came under suspect.

"As time went by, General Washington asked me to perform extensive missions for him, some required me to pretend to be a man. I had possessed a great proficiency in the art of fencing, a crack shot with a pistol, and the style of fighting I learned from a friend of my husband's known as kenpo. These skills, along with my high intellect, had persuaded Washington. However, I had to be careful as some female attributes were very difficult to hide, especially in speaking and my slighter stature.

"I relished those missions. Being a man afforded the freedom I was denied as a woman."

It was not lost on Helena that in this brave new world, women appeared to finally be able to enjoy the exclusive male privileges so prevelant in her time period. And she had certainly appreciated the results illustrated in the form of the beautiful curly haired female officer interrogating her last night.

"You say you are from the year 1781?"

"Yes," Helena affirmed.

"How did you wind up here then?"

"I don't know. I was wounded in battle, and woke up in some sort of cave outside of your village," Helena paused at the memory of the events of the last day and night. "Everything is so very odd here..." she mumbled.

"You speak of a 'headless horseman' who apparently followed you into this time period?"

"Yes. Unfortunately, I am unable to discern how or why."

"Did you behead this...'headless horseman', as you put it?"

It was evident the man did not believe her, and she glared at his insinuation.

"He was no ordinary man, I assure you. He is Death itself, and it was my mission to stop this ungodly creature.

"And no I did not behead him," she stressed. "I shot him first, but he rose back up. I was cut by his blade. Fortunately, I captured his axe as he fell to the ground. It was then I dispatched the fiend by cutting off his head. Although it now appears I was unsuccessful, as he has arrived in this time period along with myself."

"You speak of being cut and you were certain death was imminent, yet you have no appearance of even BEING cut," the man persisted. "Why is this?"

"If I knew, I would tell you. Alas, I do not." Helena's patience was wearing thin, and she wanted answers of her own. "Where am I?"

"It's not where, Miss Wells. It's when." The man held up some sort of promissory note, and in the very center was a small drawing bearing the likeness of General Washington.

"What is this?" Helena peered intently.

"This is a one dollar bill. Two hundred and fifty years have passed. Welcome to the year 2013, Miss Wells."

"I want a psych eval immediately. And Lieutenant Bering, I want you off this case."

...

Captain Irene Frederic closed the file she had been writing in, and handed it to Pete. "Sergeant Lattimer, I want you to escort Miss Wells over to St. Gregory's Hospital. The paperwork is inside to present to the staff once you arrive."

"Yes, ma'am." Myka noticed Pete's worried glance, but simply disregarded it.

Myka had been awake most of the previous night. She had paced the floor, mumbling to herself as she chewed on twizzler after twizzler. Myka went over every possible angle from her own memory, to Wells's statements, to the evidence found at the scene, and even from past police files she just "happened to come across" while filing her report of the horrific scene forever etched in her mind.

But Myka needed facts, answers. They provided stability (always had) amid chaos. Her mind understood facts. Her mind did not understand the illogical, the undefinable of what she had witnessed last night.

"Captain, I know you're aware of my record. I would be indispensable to this investigation. I have the best analytical mind here, not to mention my eidetic memory-"

"Lieutenant Bering," Captain Frederic interrupted, "I have made my decision."

"Captain, let me at least interrogate Wells before Pete drives her to St. Gregory's. Wells described details perfectly. I don't believe she is the killer, but I believe she has some connection. We need to know what that connection is, so we can find the actual killer."

Captain Frederic stopped, and turned around, disclosing, "I am aware Wells is not the killer, Lieutenant. As far as some connection, I hold little credence to that theory. At least not at the moment. Wells failed the lie detector test, and her answers speak of someone mentally imbalanced which is why I want a psych evaluation." The captain's expression softened. "I understand the need to find Sheriff Nielsen's killer. Arthur and I had known each other for a long time, and I am just as anxious to solve his murder."

Before Myka could interrupt, the older woman continued, "Myka, I know you were close to Sheriff Nielsen, which is exactly the reason I want you off this case."

"Let me drive Wells over then," Myka pressed. "At least I can interrogate her on the way."

"Lieutenant-"

"Please, Captain." Myka was begging at this point, and hated herself for it. "I may not have Pete's vibes, but my gut feeling tells me Wells may be the key."

The captain stared at Myka over the top of her glasses, and Myka had the sense she and her argument were being scrutinized.

Captain Frederic was a formidable woman who easily inspired compliance among her officers. By the book Myka Bering, whose obsessive need to follow rules and respect authority had never before questioned her captain's orders. They both knew how difficult it was for Myka to go against her own code of ethics.

"All right, Lieutenant, you may take Wells to St. Gregory's," Captain Frederic finally relented. "However," she emphasized, "rest assured, you will be removed from this case as soon as she is checked in."

...

"The very fact you wish for my help suggests no other options exist."

Myka squinted in the glare of the afternoon sun, and slipped her ray bans on. "Look, Wells, I am the closest you will come to someone actually believing your fiction."

"If it is really fiction as you say, then why have you neglected to inform your colleagues you witnessed a Headless Horseman, Lieutenant?" Myka said nothing. "Ah, I see. While it matters not that YOU have withheld knowledge, it matters if I do so. It appears hypocrisy still exists."

Myka's jaw worked. Wells had rightfully called her out on that one. Instead of any acknowledgment, Myka opened the shotgun door, and motioned to the interior of the car. "Get in."

"It is rather difficult when I have these damned manacles on my wrists." Wells held up her handcuffs, giving them a little shake.

After a moment, deciding the threat from the other woman was minimal, Myka unlocked the cuffs, securing them onto her belt. However, she pointedly placed her hand on her holster. "See this gun, Wells? I am authorized to use this any time. Now, sit in the car."

Wells raised an eyebrow, and rubbed her wrists. Myka walked around the police cruiser, wondering why it bothered her to see those soft wrists sport red marks from the handcuffs.

"I cannot believe it a mere coincidence that the Headless Horseman and I have arrived at the same moment in time and in this very village."

Myka opened the driver side door. "Whatever you believe makes no difference...facts do."

"And here I believed, Lieutenant, I had awakened in the future with my daughter dead for over 250 years. I'm glad to know whatever I see and hear is impossible because then it isn't truly happening."

The bitter sarcasm brought Myka up short. If this woman's story was true (which she had a nagging suspicion it was), Myka felt a measure of guilt for not considering any family this woman left behind.

But at this moment, Myka needed to focus on the here and now, which meant interrogating Wells for answers in order to solve Artie's murder.

"I have orders to take you to a mental institution, and that's the end of it. Now, Wells, this is the last time I will say this: Get into the car or I will not hesitate to shoot you where you stand."

Wells rolled her eyes. "Wonderful. This day continues to bring the most unwelcome gifts."


End file.
